Reflections 3: Epiphany, Envy and Collision
by Jainie Starr
Summary: Brian recalls the first time he saw Curt perform live - we also see the emergence of his Maxwell Demon persona.


Reflections of a Demon 3:  
Epiphany, Envy, Collision

I wanted to be like him. 

I wanted to understand the kind of freedom that he knew, possess it. The abandon, the utter fearlessness. 

I was so cold. That's the only physical sensation I can clearly recall from that night: it was easily several degrees below freezing -- even in my furs, I was shivering; yet there he stood on the stage, shirtless and then soon completely naked. The madness and adrenaline coursing through his veins were the only things that shielded him from the chill. 

They heckled him, called him a wanker and a poof -- every colorful, tasteless insult in the book -- and he shouted back. They flipped him the bird and he flipped it right back. They screamed for him to get the hell off of the stage, but instead, he yanked his trousers down and kept on singing. 

You could see his breath -- milky, misty gouts of fog -- as he sang, yet he appeared to pay no mind to the cold, nor the crowd that was so vocal about what they thought of him and his music. But he didn't care. 

I wanted that. 

From what I could tell, not one second of his performance had been choreographed in the slightest. To a performer like myself, who carefully groomed himself for every performance and didn't set foot on stage without knowing the set lists from end to end and from back to front, the moves that accompanied each song, etc., a man like Curt Wild was terrifying. I just thought I was being professional -- music scouts love professional, or so Cecil had told me -- and yet I realized I was just being too predictable. With a man like Curt Wild, you not only wondered what he was going to do once he got on stage, you were also wondering if he'd ever get to the stage that night at all. 

They were baying for his blood and he loved it. I suppose he thought it was better that he receive bad attention rather than no attention at all. Love him or hate him, they'd never been able to ignore him. He was angry and the disdain he hurled into the crowd was returned to him threefold by the audience. It was almost as if he _wanted_ them to hate him. He wasn't the show, the audience were. Their reactions to his music were _his_ entertainment; Curt was the audience's audience. The entire spectacle was nothing short of awe-inspiring. The crowd hated him, but he still had complete control over them. They roiled against the stage and for a moment, I thought they'd swarm it and drag him off themselves, but no one was crazy enough to go anywhere near that madman. 

Someone firebombed the stage -- if that had happened during my set, I would have panicked and ran, but not Curt. Oh no. He stepped up to the flames and danced, dared them to lick at his body, consume it. Arms swaying over his head, the firelight glistened on his oil-soaked skin and for a moment -- just a single millisecond -- it looked as if he _had_ been set aflame. His entire body glowed orange and gold, white hot and deadly. What any other performer would have considered a catastrophe, Curt integrated into the performance, almost as if it _had_ been staged, as if it was meant to be a part of the show all along. 

I was stunned by him and terrified by him and I wanted him more than I'd ever wanted anyone or anything in all my life. I couldn't put it into words at that very instant, but Curt Wild embodied everything I had ever dreamed of or desired. Curt Wild was a Rock Star. 

I wanted that... and I wanted him. 

Early the following morning, I gave Cecil and Mandy the slip, wandered through the copse and undergrowth to the lake nearby. The concert had been arranged in a natural clearing in the wood and you had to practically hike in to get to the place -- which is no easy feat in an ankle-length frock, furs and platforms, let me tell you! -- but it was a nice, secluded area. No one else around for miles and miles. 

I sat and smoked a cigarette as I watched teenagers sprawled out together on blankets on the bank across from me, either shagging their stoned little brains out or sleeping off the previous evening's decadence. The day before had been miserable -- cold and just generally very nasty weather; it was pissing down as Cecil drove Mandy and I to the gig -- it would stop, but then it would start right up again. No bloody wonder the audience was in such a foul mood; they'd come from miles around to see this rock festival -- had probably saved up for weeks for the tickets and petrol to get them there -- and were getting rained on for all their trouble. Half the crowd had buggered off on home by the time I took the stage on the afternoon of the first day of the festival and the people left over, determined to stick it out and get their five bob worth, were irate due to the horrible conditions. Some huddled under blankets, but those few poor souls that had been slightly less well-prepared had to make do with their jackets or bin liners and newspapers, if they could find any, that is. 

The sun had barely even begun to rise, yet I could tell it was going to be just as bleak and unpleasant as the day before. Good, I thought as I flicked my cigarette into the lake. It landed in the water with a hiss and was instantly snuffed and waterlogged in seconds. I watched as it floated and drifted along on the eddies created by the slight breeze that whispered over the water. I wasn't in the mood for sunshine and twittering birds. I was either having a glorious creative epiphany or a ghastly artistic crisis, although I couldn't tell which one of the two it was. 

It had been raining on and off all day the day before as I'd said and it was perhaps six or seven o'clock in the morning. Thanks to the rain, the trees and foliage surrounding the area had taken on an almost surreal vibrancy and richness; everything was green -- even the air was stained emerald. 

I was suddenly reminded of the pin; I glanced down at it where it was affixed to my shoulder bag sitting on the ground beside me -- it seemed almost to glow with a life of its own, as if it were soaking up the color in the air for nourishment. 

Far above the tree tops, there was not a cloud in sight in the sky -- it was that washed-out sort of clearness that let you know the day was going to be one best spent indoors. Yet here I was, bundled up in my fur, trying to keep out the chill and trying to get the memory of that wiry, undulating, oil-slicked creature out of my mind. 

As surely as a sow nosing out truffles, Mandy soon found my hiding place, poor, bedraggled Cecil tagging along behind her. She settled down at the foot of a tree off to one side of me, just out of my peripheral vision, puff ing away at a cigarette and radiating silent, inconspicuous ire that was anything but, as I knew it was directed wholly at me. No doubt her feathers had been ruffled by my vanishing act, but that was of no great importance to me. I had more serious matters to consider. 

For the first time in my life, I realized, I had been humbled. Me, with my frock and acoustic guitar and cabaret-inspired whining. I had been bested by a man who had none of my poise or talent or even physical beauty... but I'd been bested, nonetheless. Even though the crowd couldn't see his genius, I could and the understanding I'd gleaned from that brief glimpse I'd had of him made something inside me churn bitterly. My music was piss-weak and maudlin in comparison, to the point of being embarrassing. To think I'd actually stepped out on that stage, convinced that they'd adore me! It was arrogance of the worst sort; the resulting penalty had been swift and merciless. 

They despised him... yet he didn't care, didn't even so much as bat an eyelash at their barbed insults and rude gestures. He drank that hatred in and was bolstered by it, as if it were his fuel -- raw energy to be absorbed, transmuted and ultimately exploited. 

I closed my eyes and behind my lids, I could see the flames nipping at his skin, yet he wasn't burned, not wounded by them. Nothing could touch him, at that moment... not the fire, not the audience's harsh words, not even the cold. 

They _despised_ him... 

"Yeah," Mandy's voice. Had I actually said that last thought aloud? "But when you're abused like that... you know you've touched the stars." Hmph. How very profound of you, Amanda, darling. 

"I know -- I just -- just wish it'd been me," I replied, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. She had no idea of what I was going through at that moment, none at all -- making her attempts to soothe my wounded pride nothing more than insult on top of injury. "Wish I'd thought of it." 

"You will, love," she said. And there was this tender certainty in her voice, pride and surety. "You will." 

And it was then that I decided -- I'd take these lessons I'd learned and turn them to my advantage. The frock and acoustic guitar were going into the dust bin and I was going to find myself a new look and new music to go along with it. I was going to be a Rock Star, just like Curt. And, once that was accomplished, I'd set about drawing my unwitting teacher into the circle of my success and dazzle him with my wealth, success and influence. 

I wanted him... and I would have him. I was as assured of that fact as I was about the fact I was going to be star. That I might _not_ be a success in my musical endeavors and might not succeed in luring Curt to me never even occurred to me. 

Again, such incredible arrogance -- a variety of pure, oblivious surety of which only the young are capable. The penalty for it was the loss of my art, my career and my very livelihood, my marriage and Curt. Of all those things, there was only one that I truly regretted losing -- one person in particular -- the very man who had inspired me to chase after my ambitious fancies. Yet, despite that fact, I couldn't bring myself to resent him for it. That's about as productive as the survivor of a car crash resenting the factory that built their car. 

Looking back on it, that's what my life feels like: a massive, devastating car wreck. Remembering the way some people would gawk at me as I passed them on the street soon after my faked assassination, I'm reminded of those people that will quite literally stick their heads out the car window and peer at an accident as they drive past it. 

They had despised him... I wanted to, I tried to. Oh, how I tried to hate Curt for the ruination he'd inadvertently wrought, the utter mess my life had become as a result of seeing that performance of his at the festival in the countryside. 

But when it came down to it, I had no one to blame or hate but myself. 

The End. 


End file.
